


His Autumn Child

by heartofstanding



Series: Henry IV and Fatherhood [1]
Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Angst, Babies, Bad Parenting, Dehumanising language used towards a baby, F/M, Fatherhood, Gen, It’s all downhill from here, Plantagenets' A+ Parenting, sickly baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 18:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18266900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Henry doesn’t really cope well with the birth of his first son.





	His Autumn Child

**September 1386, Monmouth**

Henry cannot help but turn to look at Mary as they walk through the gardens. The land is still caught in the blaze of summer; the trees are still green, not yet turning to the golds and reds of autumn, and the flowers are still in bloom. Bees are amongst the honeysuckle and Henry can smell its scent on the gentle breeze. But nothing in the garden is as beautiful as Mary, one arm supporting the weight of her pregnant belly and the other twined in his.

She has said that she feels like she’s carrying around half of Monmouth in her belly, that she is glad the midwife says she will deliver by the end of the month, in about two weeks’ time. Henry thinks these things are all true – she seems too small for her belly, though they waited a year after she came of age to consummate their marriage. He wonders even now if they should have waited longer – but she is beautiful, her face aglow as she turns it up to the sky, so clear, so blue.

‘You are beautiful,’ he tells her.

She laughs, her cheeks dimpling, and squeezes his arm. ‘Oh, please – you needn’t try to make me feel better.’

‘But it’s true,’ he says. ‘You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.’

‘You always say that.’

‘It’s always true.’

She shakes her head. ‘Oh, but – oh, he’s moving again.’

Henry laughs now, even when Mary seizes his hand and presses it against her belly, the churn of the child within moving. _The child,_ the son – though they are not sure, of course. Joan, Mary’s mother, says Mary is carrying low enough to indicate a boy, as have the other midwives. But when Henry had told his father Mary was pregnant, he had only nodded and said, _good, you’ll need a son._ Henry hopes it’s a son – a son is an heir, the future of his line ensured, the chance to please his father for once.

Mary sighs beside him. ‘I’ll be pleased when all this is over. My back – it’s been hurting since the morning. Walking helps, I find, but then it just hits me all at once…’

‘You never said a word,’ Henry says.

She laughs again, a happy little trill. ‘Oh, Henry, if I complained about everything that my body was doing, your ears would fall off.’

He is not sure about that at all.

‘Well, let’s go back inside. We will have musicians play to soothe you and I will rub your back for you… and then, perhaps, we can dismiss the musicians.’

‘You want me like this?’ Mary stops and turns to face him, one arm wrapped under the bulk of her belly.

He leans in and kisses her, cupping her face in his hands. She giggles shyly, but doesn’t pull away, instead setting her hand on his hip and deepening the kiss.

‘Always,’ he says, when he pulls away. ‘I always want you.’

She presses a finger to his lips. He kisses it. ‘Oh, but – _I want to,_ but…’ She shakes her head, face crestfallen. ‘It might hurt the baby.’

‘Then we’ll wait,’ Henry says. And as much as it pains him, they will. They must do nothing to risk Mary or the child. ‘But when this one is born and you have been churched—’

‘We’ll have another soon on the way,’ Mary says with a laugh.

*

In the next morning, after hearing mass, Mary is sitting with her mother, her fingers working her needle nimbly as she embroiders roses onto one of those cloths for blowing one’s nose. Mary thinks they’re quite clever, though Henry can’t really see the point – his sleeve has served his nose well enough in the past. Her back is still paining her, he can see it in the way she stops every now and again to stretch. He turns his attention back to the book in his lap, missing the times when he and Mary would make music together or read together.

‘Oh,’ Mary says, quite loudly.

She’s dropped her sewing and both hands are on her belly. Her ladies rush to her. Henry jumps up, sending his book to the floor.

‘Oh,’ she says again. ‘That – that really hurts.’

‘Mary?’ Henry says. ‘Mary?’

His voice cracks with panic. Mary’s face is pale, her shoulders shaking as Joan helps her stand. She looks at him, her grey eyes wide.

‘I didn’t think it would hurt so—’ she cries out. ‘Henry, Henry – I think something’s wrong.’

‘There’s nothing wrong,’ Joan says, calm and immovable by her daughter’s side. ‘The baby’s coming, that’s just all there is to it.’

‘He’s not meant to,’ Henry says. ‘The midwives said – two weeks…’

Joan smiles thinly, resting her hand on Mary’s shoulder. ‘Ah, but babies do not know what midwives say. They come when they want to.’ She murmurs something in Mary’s ear, then turns to Henry again. ‘Well, farewell your wife.’

‘Farewell?’ Henry echoes. ‘She’s not – she can’t go anywhere like this.’

Joan gives him a withering stare but before she can speak, Mary pleads for him. He goes to her, kissing her cheeks and taking hold of her hands.

‘It will be fine,’ he says, because that’s clearly what she needs to hear, not his panic. ‘All will be well. I love you.’

‘And I, you,’ Mary says, giving him a small smile. ‘When – when I see you again, we will have a child.’

Henry smiles, squeezing her hands tight before Joan turns and hustles her daughter away to the bedchamber to give birth.

*

Henry paces the room, trying not to think of his wife or of her bedchamber door, closed for _hours._ The women have come in and out of Mary’s room to eat and snatch sleep, but the news they bring is sparse. He sends posies and trays of Mary’s favourites foods, and they say his gifts cheer Mary, but he sees the strain in their faces. What good are flowers and pears when she is labouring to give birth to their child?

No one says anything to him – he suspects they are afraid to – but he has begun to think something must be wrong. It is taking too long. Between his frantic prayers and his even more frantic attempts to distract himself, he thinks that he does not want the child, be it son or daughter, if the cost is Mary.

He takes himself out to the tilting yard to practice, trying to distract himself. But when he realises he has forgotten Mary, dread and disgust overfill his stomach. When he’s exhausted himself, he returns and summons the midwife out. She says nothing of use.

‘Will she live?’ he demands.

‘She is determined to,’ the midwife says. ‘But only God knows, my lord.’

It is not what he wants to hear. He thinks of Mary laughing in the gardens, the sweetness of her smile, and how it would feel if they were gone. No child could be balm enough for that wound.

‘If – if it comes to a choice,’ he says. ‘Then you must prioritise her life.’

The midwife’s brow creases. ‘Over the child’s?’

‘Yes. I will not have him murder her.’

‘It is not murder, my lord,’ the midwife says. ‘The babe does not ask to be born.’

‘Then who is to blame?’

The midwife gives him such a look. He does not understand. In the distance comes a yell of exhausted pain and he starts. _Mary._

‘Tell me what to do,’ he begs. ‘I am going mad.’

‘Pray,’ she says and leaves without waiting for him to dismiss her.

He has been praying since it began, but he takes her words to heart and prays again. He eats a little and takes his men on a hunt, but he cannot bear it. All his efforts to bring down prey go wrong, his hands sweat around the shaft of his spear. He strains his ears for the sound of a messenger, someone frantically calling him to Mary’s side. When he returns, he thinks, _it will be now, they tell me now,_ but no one is waiting for him.

In the late afternoon, the sun beginning to sink, Joan comes out. Her face is grey, her hands shaking. He comes to her, desperate to hear.

‘There is no news,’ she says and turns her back on him. ‘She sent me away so I might sleep. I will rest, then return to her.’

‘I have been praying,’ Henry says.

‘Yes, and hitting things with a sword,’ Joan says, her voice caustic.

‘If there is anything—’

‘I wish to God I had not intervened,’ Joan says, more to herself than to him. ‘If she was in a convent, she would be well.’

Henry freezes, stricken to the bone.

*

It is past eleven in the morning. He is roused from the chair he is dozing on, the midwife’s hand on his shoulder.

‘Forgive me, my lord—’

‘No – you have news?’

‘You best go to her,’ she says. ‘The child is born. A boy.’

‘They are both—?’ He raises his fist to his mouth, unable to say it.

‘Yes,’ the midwife says, but she does not look encouraging. ‘The babe is small – the priest has been sent for so he might be baptised soon.’

He has a son. An heir. If the child will live. And—

‘Mary? Is she—?’

‘She is weary, of course,’ the midwife says. ‘But her colour is good and she is in strong spirits. I cannot promise anything, but I worry most about the child. You best go up, my lord.’

*

Mary’s dark hair is fraying in her braids, her face pale and tired. He sees only her as he rushes to her side, leaning in to kiss her forehead. She has been bathed, he thinks, and smells of the chamomile and lavender her ladies have used to sweeten the water. She smiles at him and it is a proud smile. He reaches to take her hand and stops.

The child is lying against her chest, her arms wrapped around it. It is small and at once Henry understands the midwife’s concern. This is not a healthy child; babies do not look like this.

‘He is beautiful, isn’t he?’ Mary says.

No, Henry does not say, it is not. Its skin is wrinkled and ruddy, dark hair sticks wetly to its brow, the face all squashed up and small mouth frowning severely. He wants to call the midwife and have the baby taken away.

‘I named him Henry,’ she says. ‘We settled on that, didn’t we?’

Henry nods. They had. _Henry_ for a boy, though they’d call him Harry (Mary suggested Hal, Henry wasn’t so sure of it) so he wouldn’t come running whenever someone called for Henry. _Blanche_ for a girl, because Mary said that would please Lancaster, a granddaughter named after his beloved dead wife and because Henry thought it would soften the blow of them not having a son. Henry peers at the baby, the eyelids creased closed, and feels a stab of resentment that such a weak child, sure to die, has been named after himself.

‘He is a sweet boy,’ Mary says. ‘Perfectly formed.’

Henry doubts that, but he supposes it looks whole enough and has no obvious extra fingers or toes.

‘Shouldn’t you give it to the nurse?’

Mary’s arms tighten around the baby. ‘There’s no need. He’s been fed. I want to hold him.’

‘You’ve been through enough,’ he says. ‘The priest will be here soon and you should rest so you can greet him. The nurse is here to look after the child. She will hold it until the priest gets here, keep it warm.’

‘I want to hold Harry,’ she says, firmer this time.

Henry sits down on the stool by Mary’s bed, reaching out to brush his hand over her wrist, careful that his sleeve does not touch the babe’s skin. ‘Are you sure?’

‘We fought so hard together,’ she says. ‘It does not seem right to let him go. He is mine.’

She lowers her head and kisses the baby’s forehead. The baby’s face crinkles, the mouth moving restlessly.

 _And mine,_ Henry almost says. Perhaps, though, it is better that he doesn’t claim this child as his own. Not to shame Mary, no – that would be cruel and she would never betray him. But the child will pass like water, so what point is there in claiming it? He has no interest in it, no desire to make it his heir for only a day. It is better to distance himself, not to take the child in his arms and pretend he is pleased by it.

‘Please,’ he says, instead, ‘don’t tell me you have the silly idea of wanting to feed it.’

Mary flares up at that, lifting her head to stare at him. ‘Of course not.’ The, _you fool,_ is charitably left unsaid. ‘Look at his hands,’ she says, after a moment, touching them herself. ‘They’re so small. So perfect.’

Henry doesn’t want to. He glances instead at the woman sitting in the corner, looking like she’s settled in for the day. The wet nurse, he guesses. Mary is tired – the ordeal must have exhausted her.

‘Take your charge,’ he snaps. ‘Get it out of my sight.’

Mary clutches the baby closer to her. It lets out a small noise of protest and Mary soothes it. The nurse shifts uneasily in her chair.

‘The countess wanted to hold him,’ she says. ‘He’ll want for nothing for a good while. I’ve already fed and changed him. All he’ll want is sleep.’

 _I don’t care,_ Henry is about to snap out, but he forces himself to be silent. Mary cares and that should be enough. He turns back to his wife, bends his head to kiss her brow. Her eyes are shadowed.

‘You need to rest,’ he says. ‘You’ve been through a lot. The babe – it will be fine.’

‘Oh, Henry,’ Mary says. Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh, Henry.’

‘All will be well,’ he says, raising a hand brush her hair back from her face. ‘Let the nurse take the child.’

‘No, no,’ Mary says. A tear drips from her eye, slides down her cheek. ‘You hold him.’

‘What? No. The nurse is here if you wish to give—’

Mary stares at him, her tears streaming down her face, and he doesn’t know what to say or what to do. This child has ruined her, but she will not let it go, will not let it die as it will.

*

In the evening, things seem better. The priest has come, baptised the baby and shrived Mary. The nurse has taken charge of the baby and disappeared into the nursery and Henry can forget, briefly, that there is a child, though he supposes when the word comes that it has died, that will change. Mary sleeps long into the day and upon waking, seems to have recovered almost completely.

She does, however, barely acknowledge Henry before she asks after the baby and Henry has to send for it rather than admit he has not checked and can only presume it is still living because no one has told him otherwise.

The nurse comes and sets the child into Mary’s arms. It has been wrapped in swaddling clothes, and for that reason alone, Henry thinks it looks better, a little less like a blob of ruddy flesh.

‘Oh,’ Mary breathes. She takes the small body in her arms, and the eyes open, mouth opening and then closing. ‘Is he hungry?’

‘No, my lady,’ the nurse says. ‘I think he’s a little startled, that’s all.’

Henry cannot bear to watch. Mary loves the child so, is rapt in it – she examines with fresh eyes and peppers the nurse with questions. Was the nursery warm enough, did the babe sleep through the night, did it need much feeding, did it take well to the hasty baptism? They barely seem to notice Henry sitting there and he is not jealous, _no,_ but all he can think of is the fact that the child will die and Mary will be devastated. He should speak to Joan, have her take the child away and so spare Mary the pain of loving it and losing it. Yes. That is for the best.

He stands and when Mary looks up at him, face free from guile, he smiles and bends to kiss her forehead.

‘You should rest,’ he tells her. ‘There is – business I need to attend to.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘But you’ve barely – will you not hold him, before you go?’

She makes to shift the child, to lift that – that _blob_ up so that Henry might take it in his arms. He recoils without meaning to, and Mary’s face falls.

‘I will return later,’ he says. ‘And we will talk then. But I – I must go, now.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Later, then.’

*

When he explains his reasoning for taking the child from Mary to Joan, it doesn’t come out right. Joan’s brows furrow and she rests her head on her hand, eyes narrowed and focused on him. She is dressed in a simple gown, an old shawl over her shoulders, and she seems exhausted. Surely she will _understand._

‘I do not think taking Harry from her is a wise idea,’ Joan says at last.

‘ _Harry_?’

Joan’s frown grows more severe. ‘I thought you’d settled on calling him Harry. Or is it Hal? It hardly matters; he’s too young to know his name.’

‘No, no, it’s Harry. I just – I’m still getting used to it.’

Joan eyes him suspiciously, then sighs. ‘Regardless, it comforts her now to have him with her.’

‘Does she even know? That he will die?’

‘ _Will_ die? Nothing is certain, Henry.’ Joan pauses. ‘She knows Harry is weak, that he is at risk. We all do.’

‘Then should we not—’

‘What, Henry? Take him into the forest and leave him for wolves?’

‘No!’

Henry’s stomach squirms uncomfortably. He does not like the image, does not like that she thinks he would agree to it.

‘Then what? Take him away from Mary so she will fret and worry? My daughter is no fool.’ Joan stands and draws her shawl tighter around her shoulders. ‘Let her have the baby. If _–_ and it is _if,_ Henry – Harry dies, we will deal with it then.’

‘But,’ he says, standing up as well. ‘Surely it’s better not to – if she _bonds_ with him, it will hurt all the more.’

‘Yes,’ Joan says. ‘That’s generally what happens when you lose someone you love. It’s always a risk, Henry.’

His breath comes out in one long rush and he stares at her, but she only looks tired and a little sad. He wonders how Mary can love a child barely a day old. He wonders how Joan could stand to be in the room with Mary when she was in such danger, how she can stand to mention the child that nearly killed her own daughter, much less _defend_ him. Henry thought she would understand – had she not wished Mary into a convent if that would have saved her?

He wants to ask her if she still wishes the same. If she has forgiven him for being the reason why Mary did not become a nun. But he doesn’t dare. Even so, it feels like she has forgiven him when Joan crosses to him and leans up to kiss his cheek.

Then he is left alone. He looks around the room, the emptiness of it, and though the day has been warm and the fire is already lit, he feels cold.

*

Henry is careful to time his next visit to Mary late in the evening, when he knows that the child is in the nursery and, presumably, asleep. Mary is sitting up in bed, looking through her psalter, but she sets it aside and smiles at him.

‘I was wondering when you would come,’ she says.

He bends his head to kiss her and then settles in the chair by the bed.

‘How are you feeling?’

Mary shrugs. ‘Well enough, I suppose. Still sore and tired – and I miss him. I feel like I am missing so much.’

He bites his tongue. ‘You’re not. He’s sleeping. There’s not much to see.’

‘You’ve been to visit him, then?’

‘Just before I came here,’ he says, knowing this is what she wants to hear. ‘He’s sleeping very – sweetly. I swear.’

Mary sighs and picks at the sheets. ‘I wish I knew why you do not care.’

‘I do care,’ Henry says. ‘I just told you, I saw the child—’

‘I know when you’re lying,’ she says. ‘You won’t even touch him, and you wish me to believe that you’ve visited him?’

Henry opens his mouth, closes it. He looks at the ground, wonders if he owes her an explanation, if he can conjure one up that doesn’t end with him saying, _the child will die._ He doesn’t want to upset her, after all. Mary picks at the sheets.

‘At first, I thought, perhaps you thought he wasn’t yours, but if you did you would hate me as well,’ she says.

‘I don’t – I don’t hate you,’ he says. ‘I could never hate you. And that – that never crossed my mind. I don’t hate you. Or the child.’

‘Then what is it? I wish to God I knew so I could make it right.’

‘You can’t,’ Henry says. ‘It’s nothing you can fix, Mary. It was just – it was hard, waiting, and I just need some time to get used to the idea.’

‘Of having a son? You’ve had _months,_ Henry.’

Mary’s mouth snaps shut and she groans, burying her face in her hands. This is utterly unlike her, this arguing, this confrontational, contradictory side to her. This is not his sweet, quiet Mary. The baby has changed them, forced to lose their easy way with each other.

‘I am sorry,’ Mary says. She swallows. ‘I understand. It’s just I love him so and – and you don’t.’

‘It will come,’ he says. ‘I promise you, it will come.’

*

In a week, the leaves have begun to fade, Mary has regained some of her strength and the child still lives. Henry counts the days, knowing tomorrow, he must begin his journey to Westminster to attend parliament on October 1. He does not want to go, though he must – he is the Earl of Derby and, in his father’s absence, he represents Lancaster, and he needs to be there, to push through the reforms Richard has tried to deny. It is the right and just thing to do.

But he does not want to leave Mary. She is recovering well, though still weak and sore, and he fears there is a chance that her health will fail while he is away. More than that, he does not want the child to die while he is gone and cannot comfort her.

Joan and Mary both say the baby is getting stronger every day. Henry does not believe them. He has managed to avoid seeing much of the baby and when he spends the evening with Mary, he is careful to avoid talking overly much about it, fearing to upset her again. When it dies, she will understand why he has acted the way he has. She must.  

When he arrives for his last visit, he finds Mary propped up on the bed by a pile of pillows and the baby lying against Mary’s breast. Henry grits his teeth. He does not want to be in the same room as it but he also wants to spend as much time with Mary as possible – and he cannot say goodbye from the doorway. Especially not once she sees him and beams at him.

‘Come and sit.’

‘I can’t stay long,’ he says.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘Sit down.’

He perches on the edge of her bed, eyes drifting unwillingly to the baby, her hand spread over its back, before jerking up to her face. Her lips twitch and he leans over to kiss her lightly.

‘You’re beautiful.’

‘You’re so sweet,’ she says. ‘I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.’

‘You don’t look it,’ he says.

Mary sighs, resting her free hand on his shoulder. ‘Must you go?’

‘Unfortunately. I wish I could stay.’

Mary nods, letting her hand fall from his shoulder. He wishes he could say something that made it better.

‘If you need me,’ he tries, ‘send word. I will do what I can.’

‘I’m sure we’ll both be fine,’ she says. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your arms.’

He does what she asks. Has she thought to give him a present? He should have thought of some gift of jewels for her, something to make up for the hours of pain she went through, for a baby that won’t live.

Something heavy is placed in his arms. The warmth of it is extraordinary, it seems _alive_. The baby stirs, whinging, and Mary shushes it, her hair brushing against Henry’s hand as the – the thing in his arms wriggles. Oh God.

He opens his eyes, stares down. The child is in his arms, staring up at him. The flesh is no longer so ruddy, one arm is up by his head, the hand a tiny fist, and the eyes are dark and bright. He’s small, so incredibly small, and fragile. Henry can only imagine himself dropping Harry – not on purpose, never on purpose – and the head cracking like an egg. He shouldn’t be responsible for such a thing – for such a person.

‘Mary,’ he says, voice croaking. ‘Mary, take him – I’m going to—’

‘You will not.’

She takes his arm and tugs Henry fully onto the bed. Stunned, he follows her lead, stretching his legs over the covers and gathering Harry close to his chest. Harry won’t fall now – and if he does, he won’t fall far – but Henry still feels that dreadful lurch that harm could come to his son. He studies Harry’s face, the small beauty of it – this is what Mary meant when she called him _perfect._ He takes one of Harry’s hands in his, examines the fingers, palm and nails formed in miniature.

‘He’s beautiful,’ he says, hardly aware he’s speaking at all.

‘I know,’ she says.

He looks up at her, wishes he had an extra arm to bring her close without letting go of Harry. But she seems to understand his impulse, leaning in to rest her head against his shoulder, her arm going underneath his to hold Harry as well.

‘You should say something to him,’ she says.

‘Like what?’

Mary rolls her eyes, but the tenderness in her expression doesn’t go away. How is she even more beautiful each time he sees her?

‘Maybe tell him who you are?’

Harry’s eyes open again and he wriggles and coos, reaching out for Mary. Mary takes his hand and kisses it. Henry feels his heart might burst. This is his son and wife.

‘I’m your father, Harry,’ he says, though the words sit stiffly in his throat.

Harry blinks and a smile curves his lips. Henry wants to grab Mary, to show her. Harry is smiling – and smiling at him. _Harry loves him._

‘Oh,’ Mary says. ‘He’s gassy again.’

‘What? How can you tell?’

‘He’s smiling,’ Mary says. ‘It’s what babies this young do when they – well, you know.’

His baby is farting on him. Lovely. Still, Harry’s probably too young to know any better and at least he’s doing it with a sweet expression on his face.

*

Harry twists in his arms, turning towards Henry’s chest, reaching out, and whatever he’s looking for obviously isn’t there because then he starts whimpering. Henry flinches and looks to Mary – what has he done wrong? He hasn’t done _anything_ except hold his child.

‘He’s hungry again,’ says Mary.

So it’s nothing Henry’s done, Harry’s just looking for his dinner. Mary eases Harry out of his arms and he quiets a little, hand reaching for her breast, before he’s whisked away to bed by the nurse. Without the warmth of that little body, Henry feels cold and he crosses his arms over his chest to try and hide it. Mary smiles at him and scoots over to kiss him.

‘She’ll bring him back,’ she says.

‘I’m glad,’ he says and means it.

He lets an arm slip over her waist and draws her close enough to kiss properly, before settling with her head on his chest and his arm over her shoulders. He loves her with a kind of fierceness that he thinks could be embarrassing if he ever spoke it out loud.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

‘I didn’t do anything.’

She smiles at him and kisses his cheek. Soon enough, Harry is returned and resting in Mary’s arms, contented with his full belly. Henry watches them, the way Mary talks to Harry, the way Harry stares up at her before his mouth opens in a tiny yawn. This will not last. Childhood is full of uncertainties and Harry is – frail. And, in time, there will be more children. But for now, this is his wife and his child, and they are perfectly formed.

**Author's Note:**

> Some historical notes:
> 
> As astrological chart drawn up for Henry V during his reign gives his birthdate as 16 September 1386 at 11:22am. The facts that his brother Thomas had a nurse in November 1387 and that Mary and Henry were in Monmouth in 1386 but not 1387 makes it the most likely choice, which is why I’ve used it here. It seems that he was small and weak baby (or "puny baby", per Christopher Allmand's _Henry V_ ).
> 
> Mary seems to have been "abducted" from her guardian (her brother-in-law Thomas of Woodstock, who wanted her to join a convent and claim the full Bohun inheritance for himself) to marry Henry. Christopher Given-Wilson suggested that it was Joan Fitzalan, Mary's mother, who arranged for Mary's abduction. Until fairly recently, it was believed that Mary gave birth to a son in 1381 at a stupidly young age - Ian Mortimer’s _The Fears of Henry IV_ points out that the evidence of this story is actually about the birth of Humphrey of Gloucester, Thomas of Woodstock and Eleanor de Bohun's son who died in 1399. Mary is listed of age in December 1384, but she would have conceived Harry around Christmas 1985 (per Amy Licence's _Red Roses_ ). 
> 
> Henry left Mary and his newborn son before Mary was churched to attend the October 1 parliament. September 24 is his date of departure according to Ian Mortimer. The original version of this fic had him leaving after Mary was churched and the ending has been rewritten to reflect this.


End file.
